in full sail, with white gown and crimson Oxford
hood heraldically across, appears at his garden
gate, making for the church porch. As rabbits
into their holes at sight of a terrier, so do the
Royal Samaritans make a dive at the church-door
at sight of the Reverend Mr. St. Ives, with
a blue and red cockade on his breast.

The organ bursts forth exultingly at the
rector's entrance; all the blue and red ribands
jostle and shake down by degrees into the various
pews. It is a pleasant sight, the rows of
grey and bald heads mingled with glossy curls
and youth's plentiful hair-thatching. There is a
good deal of violently subdued coughing; and
now and then, perhaps, a Royal Samaritan's mind
turns fondly to the thought of the roast beef on
the spit; but the outward behaviour of every
Samaritan is thoroughly decorous and praiseworthy.
The text of the sermon is, "If one
member suffer, all the members suffer with it;"
an excellent text for a sermon to the House of
Commons. It is an admirable, kindly, and right-feeling
sermon, and is listened to attentively.

And then the congregation tumbles out, and
the procession re-forms. The band plays a military
air, and assumes a military air at the
same time. The face of every "Royal Samaritan"
turns to Dowton Parva. Every cloud
that floats in the blue assumes to their eyes
the shape of a round of beef, or a pudding. The
goal of the procession is the Dark Sun, at
Dowton, where carpenters have for days been
hammering at booths, or sitting down in paper
caps over their work, to discuss the coming
feast. Past closed barn doors, past silent
corn-fields, the Royal Samaritans defile towards
the Dark Sun, with banner flying, band playing,
and red and blue ribands streaming in
the sun; and now, breaking the ranks, comes
Squire Hanger in his dog-cart, spanking along
and greeting all he meets. He is to be chairman
at the dinner, and, like the rector, who
is with him, he wears a cockade at his button-hole.

Such queer old heads in the procession, food
for Hogarth, fit for Leech—heads such as lively
fancy sees on old stained walls, or on tree-knots
—honest tough shrewd heads, gnarled by many
a summer's sun and winter's storm, many a long
vigil at lambing season, many a long night-watch
in pheasant season, many a tough wrangling bargain
in corn-market, many a lingering conflict
over fat oxen and droves of Downshire sheep.
Two and two these quaint old heads reach the
Dark Sun, and group on the strip of turf near
the skittle-alley. In the mean time, by various
roads and converging paths, the gentry (honorary
members) and stray subscribers have dropped in;
the landlord is in the doorway, frank in his welcome;
the club doctor, in high riding-boots, and
with a whip, useful to rap out the leading incident
of a story, is already in the best parlour;
and so are one or two gentlemen farmers from
lovely Down farms islanded among fir plantations,
and who are examining with extreme interest
some highly-coloured prints, known respectively
as "The Fox-Hunter's Death" and
"The First Partridge." Out in the kitchen are
one or two casual customers, who, undisturbed
by the general festivity, hew away with clasp-knives
at wedges of bread and bacon, and converse
fitfully, with long and dreary silences between,
somewhat in this way:

First Casual. "I think the weather's taking
up."

Three bars' rest.

Second Casual. "O yes, that's right. It do."

Or, the landlord volunteers a story about the
gun over the mantelpiece, and reports to the
company that "it do drow the shot as close as
he never saw any other gun drow the shot," and
he has therefore christened it "the Smasher."
If there be anything otherwise remarkable about
these casual visitors, it is that they assume rather
an injured air, as if the club feast had no right
to be there at all.

Outside on the turf the ribands give the
assembled company the effect of a regiment of
recruits. Really, though their dress is rude,
and their legs are of all varieties of rheumatic
twist and bend, the Royal Samaritans behave
very much as Belgravians, or any other Ians,
behave when they are waiting for dinner. They
chat in clumps, they try to appear interested in
each other's small-talk, and assume an entire
indifference to the one thought that pervades
every mind—dinner. Squire Hanger's keeper,
a tall man, is there in drab gaiters, russet hat,
and a tail-coat, with the shortest tails, I think,
I ever saw, except in an unfledged sparrow; but
still the coat gives him an air of society, of
which he is fully conscious. N.B. From constantly
being shut in shooting, the keeper's left
eye has a habit of only half opening: a habit,
however, thoroughly compensated for by the
extremely bright vigilance of its companion.

Suddenly a thrill goes through the red and
blue ribands. The dinner is served. Now, at
last the mask is off, the blinds are pulled up,
and there is no attempt in any man to conceal
his feelings. There is a stolid frank delight on
every face; a calm pressing forward to the dining-table.
And really their pleasure is not without its
dignity—good transparent-hearted men, one can
see exactly what they think. They are saying
to themselves, "We are poor men—very poor,
most of us—but we are no beggars, we don't
come here to crave any one's hospitality, we
are going to a downright good dinner earned by
our own hands and paid for by ourselves, and
we need thank no one for it but ourselves."
There is always a slight sour in the blood of
your true Englishman.

"Look at that old man in the blue coat," says
Squire Hanger to me, as we move on towards
the barn where we are to dine: pointing out a
little cheery old man with winter-apple cheeks.
"That man has been in my employ five-and-twenty
years, and a better servant no one need
wish. How d'ye do, John?"

"Tidy, zur—tidy, zur! And how be you and
missus?"

"Very well, thank you, John, considering we
ain't so young as we were."